


under your window

by scribblemetimbers



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, Identity Reveal, In all fairness I don't think they even tried, M/M, Mistaken Identity, These people are not at their best in the early mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 22:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7456393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemetimbers/pseuds/scribblemetimbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, Enjolras thought someone was being murdered in front of his apartment, and given that this is New York at -- he glanced blearily at his phone, 3:00 am <i>fuck</i> -- it's not completely impossible.</p>
<p>... But no, his rudely awakened brain registered singing. Murder and music don’t usually go together unless it’s a musical. </p>
<p>(And the singing was <i> terrible </i>.)</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Or: the "buddy you've been serenading the wrong window for 20 minutes" au but since this is Enjolras and Grantaire there is not much wooing in the serenade and 'romantic' is the last thing you'll use to describe it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under your window

At first, Enjolras thought someone was being murdered in front of his apartment, and given that this is New York at -- he glanced blearily at his phone, 3:00am _fuck_ \-- it's not completely impossible.  
  
But no, his rudely awakened brain registered singing. Murder and music don’t usually go together unless it’s a musical.

(And the singing was _terrible_.)  
  
So his second thought was: it was a party, and some idiot listened to his jaeger bomb's evil whisperings and decided that he can totally sing, so he’s liberally abusing the karaoke machine right next to his window loud enough to reach all the way to Mars, neighbors be damned.  
  
…But _no_ , that still wasn't right though. There’s no drunken cheering, it sounds way too close to be in another building and the horrible vocal torture’s accompanied by what -- now that he's edging out of sleep-deprived confusion and into sleep-deprived annoyance -- sounds like a lone guitar.  
  
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Enjolras mutters, rubbing the grit from his eyes. He drags himself to the window above the bed and pushes himself up, swearing, and blearily peers over the ledge. There’s a huge tree right in front of his window, just off to the side, partially obscuring his view whenever the wind rustles the leaves. He catches fleeting glimpses of a green and black blob that looks like its holding a glittery, bright pink guitar, so ostentatiously decorated that even to Enjolras’ blurred vision it was blinding.  
  
… No, no. Wait. Not a guitar. Too small.

Enjolras squints, dearly wishing for his glasses.  
  
A… ukelele.  
  
As if to reinforce his low opinion, the voice shrilly ascends into a crescendo and cracks maybe seven times on the highest note.  
  
An inner conscience—sounding suspiciously a lot like a very gleeful Bahorel – is clamoring in his head. _Enjolras! Enjolras! You know what you should do? DEATHMA_ –  
  
“No,” Enjolras says loudly, crushing said conscience and crawling back under his covers. “I will not – I will stay _here_ – inner peace, inner peace..” He repeats his mantra as he goes back to lie down. He aggressively jams his headphones back on and burrows under his sheets, essentially creating a dark, stuffy cave for his head.

… It wasn’t enough. The singing pierces all three of his extra-large pillows, the well-loved comforters, and the headphones that the salesperson he bought it from swears up and down could withstand even the roar of a rocket launch.  
  
Just as he’s seriously contemplating suffocation as the better end of the deal, the song finally ends, leaving blessed silence in its wake. There’s a few tense minutes where Enjolras waits for the start of another undesirable serenade, his hands tightly clutching his pillows. When the silence stretches on, he finally lets himself relax bit by bit.

( … Maybe they gave up. Or maybe something happened that made them force to stop, like divine intervention in the form of lightning or a piano falling on top of them or their own throat deliberately shrivelling up and dying because seriously who the _fuck_ — )  
  
The introductory notes of a familiar song cuts off his thoughts.

He stills.

Dread starts to fill his chest.

Shit.

Enjolras knows this song. He knows this fucking song. It’s terribly, _terribly_ familiar, but now its normally slow, heartrending melody has been replaced by a new, upbeat acoustic remix that’s just not good at this hour. …This is Courfeyrac’s karaoke song. This is one of Courfeyrac’s addictions. Like a pavlovian response, a headache starts behind Enjolras’ left eye, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and his shoulders come up in a vain attempt to protect his ears. God, he loves his friend to the death but Courfeyrac has this thing where he doesn’t just sing in the shower — he dramatizes, he fucking _emotes_ , he Mariah-Careys the shit out of the song, especially the part where it goes really, really high on the chor —  
  
Oh no.  
  
No.  
  
“Don’t do it,” Enjolras whispers.

Don’t -

“HELLO FROM THE OTHER _SIIIIIIIIIIDE_ —“  
  
“Oh my god!” Enjolras snarls, leaping up from his bed. He grabs his glasses from the top of a teetering pile of notes on his study table, jams them on, and stomps back to the window.

The blob resolves into a man in a damn _tuxedo_ , complete with cufflinks and a green cummerbund and a freaking green bowtie. It was a stiff outfit in complete contrast to the way he was head banging so hard the (green!) beanie he has on is in danger of being flung to the sky. His fingers are a blur on the small instrument, light and fast, and when his head whips up as he zips into the ukulele equivalent of a wicked guitar solo Enjolras catches a clear glimpse of his face: stubbled, in the throes of a stupidly dramatic expression for a full Adele experience, and looking far, far too pleasant and _awake_ and fucking _good_ for this time in the morning.

Enjolras grits his teeth - it’s doing nothing for his bad mood - and pushes the window open.

Or, at least, he tries to.  
  
Because of _course_ it’s stuck.

Enjolras switches to banging on the windows as hard as he could. He yells, ”Hey! Hey you!!!”

It goes unheard (or ignored). Two floors below, the man was singing the highest note like he was determined to break through the stratosphere, his whole body swaying for maximum effect. Where were his neighbours when he needs them? Where - is - the _solidarity_??? Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre always make a point to bring cake when the sweet old ladies at 2A invite them for tea and they share their beloved coffee with the grad students at apartment 2C. Those are practically declarations of eternal friendship! One would think he’s earned some kind of protection!

He presses his cheek against the glass, straining to see into the little balcony of 2C. He catches a glimpse of one of the grad students, jumping up and down and pointing to the serenading heathen, right before she’s pulled down by her roommate who was — Enjolras nearly breaks his cheekbone as he strains — huddled like an inefficient spy, face between two potted plants. He has a phone out and is…. recording?

What the hell.

(Is this one of those things? That app Bossuet and Joly likes so much? What was — Vines? Weeds?

Shit, is he going to become a meme?

…..Again????)

Fine.

_Fine_ , Enjolras thinks viciously. He’ll do this himself. He will resolve this like a civilised, mature adult —

“OH, OH, OH, OH — ”

Enjolras cups his mouth and screams, “ _Hey_!”  
  
The singing stops, and the man tilts his head and immediately zeroes in on Enjolras’ window. He starts waving his arms, shouting words he has a hard time hearing, muffled as it was by the glass.  
  
“Darling — finally –- away!”  
  
“I don’t – I can’t hear you!” Enjolras snaps. He presses himself flat against the glass, straining to hear the words and attempting to push it open again. “Dammit,” he mutters when it still won’t budge. God, he just wants to _sleep_. “What the hell are you doing?!”  
  
“We — talk!” He gestures for Enjolras to come down, and then looks back up expectantly.

Enjolras stares at him for a stunned second. “Are you serious?” he hisses, before remembering again that there are window panes impairing their communication.  
  
So he settles for vehemently shaking his head — an unmistakable gesture in most parts of the world — and glaring. And for completion’s sake — “NO!” he bellows.

Incredibly, the guy wildly shakes his head and stomps his foot on the ground. He points the ukelele at Enjolras. And then he pointedly jabs it to the ground in front of him. And then he gives an extremely exaggerated huff and yells, “— er! This – tant!”

"GO AWAY!” Enjolras roars.

The other guy jerks like he’s been slapped.  
  
And at first, it seems to have crossed over clearly, because the guy stops shaking the ukelele over his head. Good. Enjolras starts to back away from the window –-  
  
"NO!" the guy screams back.

Enjolras whip around, disbelieving, and as he watches, the guy follows up his answer with a riff on his ukulele so loud, dissonant, and insolent that it cannot be mistaken as anything other than a musical equivalent of _fuck you_.  
  
And then he starts on another song.  
  
Swearing, Enjolras jams his feet into the nearest shoes he can find -- bright orange crocs on the left, shiny loafers on the right because style doesn't really matter when murder is the goal here -- whips one of the many, many jackets on his coat rack that has been sadly neglected due to finals and interviews and _life_ , and stomps his way out his beloved apartment.  
  
He slams the doors open, heedless of the cold wind, and makes a beeline for the man with a voice that sounds like a thousand nails dragging through a chalkboard.  
  
Now, if Enjolras were a little less immersed in homicidal outrage he would have noticed how the man's eyes got really, really wide when he saw Enjolras' enraged form hurtling down the stops, how his falsetto voice cracked and choked when Enjolras' face was illuminated by the light of the moon just so, and how his ukulele chords feebly trailed off into oblivion when the distance between them finally closes to less than a foot.  
  
As it stands, Enjolras _is_ in the throes of homicidal rage, so he ignores all of these and gets real up close and personal with him and angrily jabs a finger at his chest. “You!” he snarls, ignoring the other’s huge intake of breath, following him when he attempts to scramble back. "I am going to sue you!” Another jab. “For illegal _everything_!”  
  
Enjolras approach was aggressive enough that the man has ended up pressed against the tree, the ukulele held in front of him in the same way a priest would hold a tiny cross against a horde of hellhounds. This close, he can see the smallest details of his face: the unruly black curls hiding a pierced earlobe, the brilliant green of his eyes stark against his skin, the faint scar just to the side of his upper lip. It pulls at Enjolras’ memory — _where have I seen this stupid face?_ — but it’s quickly overpowered and snuffed out by a very strong desire to punch him instead…which was amplified a thousand vengeful times when he gets a sniff of alcohol from the other guy’s breath.

Enjolras adds this bit of information to the way he’s looking right now: scrunched forehead and gaping mouth and slowly blinking, wide eyes darting from Enjolras' messy blonde hair to his mismatched shoes to the highlighter marks he knows he has somewhere on his face.

He was so so _hammered_.

“Oh my god,” the man says in a strangled voice.  
  
“Explain yourself!”  
  
The man opens his mouth, and Enjolras tenses, gearing himself up for a fight. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Is he a hired (inefficient) thug from one of the cases he worked on during his last internship with Valjean’s firm, tasked to annoy him and then shoot him dead? Is this sabotage from one of the other candidates that will be interviewed two days from now for his actual job interview with Valjean’s firm? Or is it a real misguided overture of affection from a past admirer who doesn’t know the meaning of no? Enjolras feels his indignation and anger spike, a rocket ready to blast off. _Well, whatever it is_ , he knows it’s going to be either extremely convoluted or borderline stupid; and he may have not slept in 3 days and half his shoes are bright yellow but _by god_ if this man thinks he’s not going to –

"You're... beautiful?"

Enjolras’ thoughts screech into an abrupt halt.

For a few moments, all they can do is stare at each other, leaving behind a silence that’s rapidly becoming very, very awkward.  
  
In the distance, an owl cheerfully hoots.  
  
Crickets chirp.  
  
"What the ever-loving _fuck_ ," Enjolras finally manages to say.  
  
(Look, he’s not clueless about how he looks, okay. He’s heard every variation of that sentence, from appreciative compliments to shy and hopeful declarations to condescending and jealous derision and even to outright lascivious propositions —

— But he has never heard it said like this: a combination of soft wonder and breathless amazement, all bizarrely wrapped in the package of someone _super obviously fucking confused_.)

His voice seems to break the man out of some kind of stupor, because he jerks backwards. Enjolras can see the horror dawn on his face when he realizes what he just said. "Wait, that came out wrong," he blurts out; and as Enjolras backs away to give him more space, he continues, stammering. “What I mean --- actually, there has been a _huge_ – shit.”  
  
“There has been a huge shit,” Enjolras repeats, unimpressed. He crosses his arms and waits.

“No! There has been no huge — Oh my god,” the other man says, and he grasps the body of the ukulele with both hands and not-so-gently thunks his head on the garishly pink surface.

Enjolras almost says that putting himself in a coma won’t excuse him from giving an explanation and that, no, there is also no heavenly deity that can save him from a skin flaying when the man continues, voice muffled by the ukulele. “Okay, so,” he says, “I feel like — I feel like this may have been a huge misunderstanding, but in the interest of the tattered remains of my dignity, I would like to confirm something vital and ask your, uh, name —”

“Enjolras!”

“… Right. Enjolras,” he says. He slowly lowers the ukelele, revealing a pained expression on his face, like even he knows his next question probably — slightly, maybe — borders on stupid. “And in the interest of the last sliver of hope inside my chest, do you have, like, a second name? A pseudonym? Something altogether different but equally exquisite. Like … ‘Babet’?”

“No,” Enjolras says flatly.

“How about something that rhymes? Souffle? Monterey? Have you by chance had plastic surgery? Because I used to believe you looked like the back end of horse but now you — ”

Enjolras glares.

“Just making sure!” the man says quickly, hands going up again. He sighs then, taking a step forward— and then he _stumbles_ , nearly falling face first into the pavement if not for Enjolras’ last-minute hold on his shoulders.

“Nope, I’m cool. This is cool. Thank you, I’m fine,” he says, rubbing his temple hard. He shakes Enjolras off before looking up at him, and for all his obvious inebriation he manages to look sincerely regretful. “Listen, I’m sorry I thought —- _Ah, shit_.”

He doubles over.

Enjolras pulls back. Alarm spikes through him, cutting through all the other emotions he was feeling.

“Are you —”

The man waves a dismissive hand; but then — but then when he straightens up, he looks bad. He looks like he drank expired milk and is now skirting around diarrhea bad enough to make him faint, “I think,” he says, slow and slurred, “I may have to take rain check on the explanation.” He lets out a great whoosh of breath, rubbing harder on his temples. He grimaces. “Man, I am never drinking Oscar’s demon drinks ever again.” He looks a little green around the edges now.

… Alcohol poisoning. Shit, this could be alcohol poisoning. Enjolras frantically tries to remember the things Combeferre and Joly once painstakingly memorised out loud during study sessions held in the apartment, but for some reason his brain currently feels as slow as molasses, and all he can remember is that it involves seizure and comas and, fuck, he wasn’t _serious_ about the coma —

“I feel sick,” the man says, doing nothing to lessen Enjolras’ panic. Then he adds, imploring, “Don’t tell Eponine.”

Wait. Wait what.

“I’m so sorry,” the man tells him, mournful and dazed. His gaze drifts to Enjolras' feet. “And to you, Mr. Croc — ”

“Hold on,” Enjolras starts to say.

Then he vomits right on Enjolras shoes.

—-

Enjolras [3:16]: heads up. got someone sleeping over in apartment. don’t freak out.

Courfeyrac [3:16]: ???

Combeferre [3:16]: … should we be freaking out?

Courfeyrac [3:16]: u brought someone home???

Enjolras [3:16]: dont freak out

Enjolras [3:16]: … Ill bring him in yes??

Courfeyrac [3:16]: wait did u get laid???

Combeferre [3:16]: That’s not a yes or a no enjolras :(

Courfeyrac [3:16]: OH MY GOD YOU DID

Combeferre [3:16]: No but really. Are you ok? We’re still with my parents.

Combeferre [3:17]: We’re flying back later. Can ask Feuilly to drop by.

Courfeyrac [3:17]: OF COURSE HES OKAY

Courfeyrac [3:17]: NO FERRE DONT COCKBLOCK ENJOLRAS

Combeferre [3:17]: He could be not okay though?

Combeferre [3:17]: Enjolras. Can you try calling through the phone. Yell if you’re being kidnapped.

Courfeyrac [3:18]: Lets give him a few minutes then! Enjolras appease thy friends worry please!

Courfeyrac [3:24]: …ENJOLRAS U OK

Courfeyrac [3:24]: ENJOLRAS U OK

Courfeyrac [3:24]: ENJOLRAS U OK

Combeferre [3:25]: He’s not replying

Courfeyrac [3:25] ENJOLRAS

Courfeyrac [3:25]: ENJOLRAS IF U WANT UNINTERRUPTED SEXYTIMES U GOTTA REPLY

Courfeyrac [3:25]: ENJOLRAS I CAN DO THIS ALL DAY

Courfeyrac [3:25]: ENJOLRAS

Courfeyrac [3:25]: ENJOLRAS

Courfeyrac [3:25]: ENJOLRAS

Courfeyrac [3:26]: You know what. That kidnapping theory may actually have merit ferre

Combeferre [3:26]: Or maybe he set the microwave on fire

Combeferre [3:26]: Or had a stroke?

Courfeyrac [3:27]: Enjolrasssss

Combeferre [3:27]: … Enjolras we’re going home

Enjolras [3:28]: NO DONT STAY THERE

Enjolras [3:28]: jfc I WASN OT HAVI NGS EX

Courfeyrac [3:28]: demmit

Enjolras [3:28]: He was singing outside the apartment

Enjolras [3:28]: and woke me up

Courfeyrac [3:28]: _**…THATS EVEN BETTER???**_

Courfeyrac [3:28]: omg

Combeferre [3:28]: Oh so not a stroke

Courfeyrac [3:28]: a serenade????

Combeferre [3:28]: thats actually kind of sweet

Enjolras [3:29]: NO HE WAS DRUNK

Courfeyrac [3:29]: liquid courage????

Combefere [3:29]: ^^^ :D

Enjolras [3:29]: HE PUKED ON MY SHOES

Combeferre [3:29]: … oh. not sweet O_O

Enjolras [3:29]: I HAD TO DRAG HIM INSIDE

Enjolras [3:29]: THATS WHY I COULDNT REPLY

Courfeyrac [3:30]: Who is this guy????

Courfeyrac [3:30]: WAIT IS IT PAULO THE WINE GUY?

Combeferre [3:30]: … Is it Jean the CVS man. Not Jean the accountant. Like Jean who tore his muscles trying to carry all the groceries at once for Jehan Jean?

Courfeyrac [3:30] : SHIT ITS NOT TEDDY THE ARCHITECT IS IT????

Combeferre [3:30]: ^^^ Noooo

Enjolras [3:30]: NONE OF THE ABOVE idk who he is!

Enjolras [3:30]: AND I DONT CARE

Courfeyrac [3:30]: OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH so its that kind of thing??? Did u meet online?

Courfeyrac [3:31]: DID HE SEE YOU ON A STREET WITH YOUR MANE OF RIGHTEOUS GOLDEN HAIR AND WAS A GONER

Combeferre [3:31]: want feuilly to do bg check? can call him now.

Enjolras [3:31]: NO TO ALL

Enjolras [3:31]: both of u are terrible

Enjolras [3:31]: Will deal w this in the morning. Im gonna sleep.

Combeferre [3:35]: Mom invited Courf for late night karaoke :(

Combeferre [3:35]: Ok you need it. Good night Enjolras 

Combeferre [3:36]: Good niggggght! Make good choices! — this is Courf!!!! Hiiii!

Combeferre [3:36]: ;)

Enjolras [3:45]: GOODNIGHT.

—-

Enjolras wakes up at noon after a solid eight and a half hours of rest, which is like 50% more than his usual and 100% more than what he’s had in three days so forgive him if he feels a little disoriented and a bit manic with energy.

He rolls to stand, nearly trips over his discarded shoes — the Crocs glare at him evilly — and stumbles to the door. Belatedly, he remembers his surprise guest, vaguely wonders if he should be more concerned about having a stranger conked out on their living room, then quickly discards the thought. The only thing of monetary value in the apartment is the horrifying taxidermied llama head the previous owner nailed tight to the wall, impervious against all forms of benign and violent removal, and for that they’ll take any excuse to finally get it out.

Besides, the man tripped on air on his way to sofa. A newborn _kitten_ would pose more of a threat.

He turns the knob, opens the door —

— and nearly bowls over Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac hisses in lieu of saying hello. He was poised as if to barge into Enjolras’ room.

“Courf? What are you doing here?” Enjolras asks, confused. “It isn’t even noon. You guys should’ve been — what is with your face?” he demands, cutting himself off when he gets a better grasp of Courfeyrac’s face, which was wide-eyed and borderline manic. He furtively tries to spy into the kitchen, because that kind of expression usually comes in the wake of chaotic attempts at domesticity, mostly revolving around surprise cooking sessions and accidental fires.

“Nothing! We got home early because ‘Ferre’s mother was worried and also — other things! Doesn’t matter!” Courfeyrac says, flapping his hands agitatedly. “I’ll tell you later! The point is — the point is — ” He stops, clutches a hand to his chest. He looks two seconds away from losing his shit. “ _Enjolras_!”

“What?!”

“You said you didn’t know him!” Courfeyrac bursts out. His tone shoots for angry, but since this is Courfeyrac and Enjolras is a Friend, it misses by a mile and mostly lands on distraught and disappointed. It was one thousand times worse.

“Who is —?” It takes a moment for Enjolras to figure out what Courfeyrac’s talking about. “The guy from this morning?”

“Yes!”

“I didn’t! And I didn’t get to ask — look, I left him in the living room! You can ask him! ” Enjolras gestures to their couch, where the night before he grumpily lugged and dragged and _heaved_ his guest to, put him under a spare blanket, and even made sure to place a large glass of water and some ibuprofen on the adjacent table.

(He also wrote a cranky note next to the ukulele, basically a threat of dismemberment if the man so much as _touches_ the ukulele before Enjolras wakes up.)

Now, only the ukulele, squished between the cushions, bears evidence that anyone had been there in the first place. Enjolras frowns. “Wait. Where is he?”

“You’re serious? You’re really serious,” Courfeyrac repeats, eyes bugging out of his head. “You don’t know who he is?”

“No, I don’t! And I don’t care!”

“You do! You should! Your iTunes is practically — I cannot _believe_ you, seriously — ”

“Courf, this is really not ringing any bells — ”

Courfeyrac lets out a strangled noise and then slowly, carefully encases Enjolras face between his hands. “My sweet summer child,” he says. He ignores Enjolras’ indignant squawk and only squishes his face tighter when he tries to wriggle away. “Friend. Buddy. Enjolras,” he says, “you were serenaded last night by a fucking world famous musician. Born in Paris, born with Paris-worthy hair, born with the ability to squeeze puns into almost every song he has. He’s a delight to auditory nerves everywhere and he’s the love of your secretly marshmallow little heart.” He widens his eyes. “Enjolras, he goes by the name of Grantaire — ”

Enjolras freezes.

— but he’s definitely, definitely better known by his stage name R.”

… _What_.

“Courf, you’re giving Enjolras a heart attack, ” Combeferre’s voice interrupts Enjolras’ short-circuiting brain, and a second later the man himself emerges from the bathroom, closing the door with a quiet click. He looks exasperated and fond at the same time. “Probably tone it down a bit, yeah?”

“He nearly gave _me_ a heart attack!”

“Please don’t,” Combeferre says mildly, walking towards. “I think I already have one in the bathroom.”

“That wasn’t Grantaire,” Enjolras says blankly. “That can’t be him.”

“… Do you know what he looks like?” Combeferre peers at him knowingly over his thick-framed glasses.

Enjolras opens his mouth to say _of course_ he knows what his favourite musician looks like! He’s only learned about him two years ago — him and the rest of the _world_ — when Grantaire — R! — first sang that damnable catchy song through the radio. Topped in most countries, stayed there for weeks. And then Grantaire released another song. Then another song. Then a whole album. Enjolras remembers how he hummed those songs while taking a bath, while waiting out a long coffee queue, while pulling all-nighters, and it would have stopped with that, really, because after a hugely successful debut Grantaire mysteriously disappeared from the public eye. Attention started waning after that, Enjolras included. That was fine, that was okay — there were lots of songs that Enjolras temporarily gets addicted to, and he readily admits ‘Call Me Maybe’ was banned from their meetings not because of Courfeyrac — but then out of nowhere Grantaire suddenly came back six months ago, in a surprise radio interview.

Enjolras remembers hearing the radio interview during a long drive in the early hours of the morning. Grantaire had evaded questions about the sudden drop to anonymity and why he suddenly emerged now, but he did say he’s in a different place than before, that he changed record labels and that, yeah, he has a stubble going on but he’s way too lazy to shave it.

Grantaire had then ended with a teaser for a new album, the introductory notes of a song — “ _it’s a bit different from my usual so, uh, hope you guys give it a chance. Try not to sleep. Heh_.” —- and as soon as he started singing Enjolras was a _goner_.

And, yeah, everyone’s been been raving about his new music videos, the new ones supposedly produced by Grantaire himself and a few handpicked individuals, and Enjolras _has_ been meaning to watch them, really, but with everything that’s been happening recently — law school graduation, job interviews, bar reviews, his best friends’ engagement, the Amis and all the things that drive together as an organisation and as dear friends — he’s content (more than content) with listening to R’s voice as he went through his busy life.

Enjolras closes his mouth.

Courfeyrac releases his face and pats him sympathetically on the cheeks.

“Unfortunately, it really _is_ R,” Combeferre says. He has a huge thermos of water on one hand. Clearly the meager cup hadn’t been enough. “To be fair, he’s pretty horrified by what he did. We arrived around two hours ago and found him cleaning the kitchen as an apology.” A humorous expression crosses his face. The kitchen tends to be hit the hardest when the three of them become busy. “Points for effort.”

“He tried cleaning with like the mother of hangovers,” Courfeyrac puts in. “It was painful to watch.”

“But he didn’t sound like — he was terrible. His voice was —”

“To be fair, he is definitely good enough to know the worst way to do it,” Courfeyrac offers.”He once did it on Jimmy Kimmel. Twitter broke that day, I think.”

“And let’s not forget he was also drunk,” Combeferre says. His eyes keep flitting to the bathroom door. “And from what we’ve heard, it was apparently not a serenade? It was more of a, uh, the introduction to a really ill-advised intervention driven by protective brotherly instincts. The recipient of said brotherly instincts is not at all pleased.”

“Brotherly instincts,” Enjolras echoes.

Courfeyrac nods excitedly, and now there’s a new glint in his eyes that does not bode well for Enjolras’ remaining peace of mind. “Do you remember the high-profile case Valjean’s firm handled a couple of years ago? The one with the Thenardiers and their money laundering production scams and the goddess of an actress who blew their cover? Their adopted daughter? We covered it in criminal law and you roasted those guys defending the Thenardiers so hard they quit class the next day.”

“They were morons,” Enjolras says immediately, because even in the throes of possible shock he’s gonna be salty about being asked to coexist with that level of stupid. “They attacked the reputation, the race, and work ethic of the actress who practically single-handedly brought down the Thenardiers in lieu of _an actual logical argument_ — ”

  
“I know, I know,” Courfeyrac pats him on the back, commiserating. “But really, do you remember the actress — ”

“I do, but what — ”

“Yes, well. About that,” Combeferre hedges, trying (and failing) to channel calm and zen through his doctor voice. That’s definitely his doctor voice. It’s mostly failing. Enjolras does not feel the least bit comforted. “See — ”

A new voice interrupts their conversation. “Oi!” the voice — a woman’s voice — says through the bathroom door. “Is he awake? I’m hearing voices. Did you wake him?”

“It was not my fault!” Courfeyrac yells back immediately, then slaps both his hands to his mouth. “I just yelled at an Academy Award winner,” he whispers, horrified.

And before Enjolras can process that horrifying sentence, the bathroom door slams open and a woman stomps out, head down and grumbling and focused on wrestling with a familiar black jacket. She has a wet towel slung over her shoulder, seemingly uncaring of the fact that she’s wearing an _actual evening gown_ and a damn tiara.

“Do you think you can keep him inside a little longer?” Eponine — as in Academy Award winner _Eponine Thenardier_ — asks. She lets out a triumphant sound when she finally gets the jacket into a neat fold. “Grantaire’s freaking out. He wants to look less like a hungover human disast— oh.”

Eponine claps her hands to her mouth, staring at Enjolras. The hoodie wrinkles. She doesn’t seem to care.

There’s a beat of awkward silence.

“Shit,” Enjolras says.

Eponine lets out an earsplitting cackle. “Oh my god.” A grin splits her face, teeth bright against her dark skin. “Oh my god, R,” she yells over her shoulder. “Grantaire, I cannot believe you!” She makes an abrupt turn and goes back the bathroom, slamming the door closed.

The shower stops and a muffled conversation can be heard through the door. A groan. A thump. Then another cackle.

Courfeyrac leans in and says in a hushed voice, “Apparently, Grantaire thought Babet broke Eponine’s heart and he wanted to like, avenge her honour. Like a knight in shining armor.” He waggles his eyebrows at Enjolras, teasing and suggestive, and Enjolras’ feels a touch of panic because _oh shit Courfeyrac knows about his iTunes library._

“Except there was no honour to be avenged,” Combeferre points out (Coufeyrac’s “‘Ferre, it’s the thought that counts!” is quickly smushed with a hand on his mouth), “Because they were just fake dating for a movie. You know the one from last December? With the dragon riders and floating deserts?” At Enjolras slow wide-eyed nod, he continues, “Yeah, that one. So, now that it’s done, they quietly broke up last week, like what their contracts intended. I think they’ll make the announcement soon — Courf!” He jerks when Courfeyrac ruthlessly pokes him on the side, making him remove his hand. A short staring match between his two best friend ensues.

And just, _really_ —

“Guys, please stop flirting,” Enjolras says in a pained voice.

Combeferre breaks the stare, looking a little ruffled. He clears his throat, faint red blooming on his cheeks. “So, yes, that’s it,” he says, as dignified as one blushing extra hard like him possibly could. “A pretend relationship, with the pretence only known to the higher ups. From what Eponine told us, they had NDAs on NDAs. No one can know it was an act.”

“Except she acted a little too well,” Courfeyrac says, and the giddy ‘ _of course she did_ ’ was heavily implied in his tone. “Because she fooled Grantaire and I think even when she tried explain he was still super mad about it. He thought Babet only used Eponine for exposure. You should have heard him ranting, Enjolras,” His eyes were shining. “Such acid. So much shade. Such creative manipulation of words and the human psychology of fear. Babet was going to get _dragged_.”

“He said his prepared speech to us in between bouts of regret for mistaking you as Babet and the violent deep clean he tried on our kitchen,” Combeferre says. His mouth twitches into a tiny grin. “Eponine arrived just in time to save him from doing the same to the bathroom.”

“We showed her a picture of you, you know,” Courfeyrac says. He gives a low, delighted laugh. “She looked completely offended on your behalf. Said she hasn’t even seen you in person but thinks it’s like comparing a plastic knife to an elaborately decorated meat cleaver.” He lowers his voice. “I completely agreed — the blonde hair is the only thing — but yeah, fun fact: she doesn’t actually like Babet. At All.” He shakes his head. “ _Acting_ ,” Courfeyrac whispers, awed.

“Eponine compared him to a moldy cheese cracker,” Combeferre says. He pushed his glasses up his nose and frowns. “Apparently, he really is not as gentlemanly as he appears on screen. All the rumours were true.”

Their conversation’s interrupted when the bathroom door opens with a loud bang and said actress herself strides out. She vaults over the couch and makes a beeline for the three of them. How she does that in a glittery silver monstrosity is beyond Enjolras’ comprehension. Also, the last time he saw her it was on a movie screen and she was the lone survivor of a bloody battlefield, holding the rival king’s head on one hand and a rescued witch-princess on the other. She had the exact same expression on her face right now as she had during that scene. It was a bit terrifying.

“Grantaire’s currently trying to drown himself in the shower,” Eponine declares once she’s near enough. “He’ll be out soon.” She turns to Enjolras, raising her eyebrows. “So did you hear the whole sordid tale?”

Enjolras turns crazed eyes on her.

“I did tell him!” Eponine says defensively. “But then the timing _may_ have been bad, now that I think about it,” she admits after a short pause, a little sheepish. At the looks on their faces, she elaborates, “It was during yesterday night's event. I took him as a plus one.”

Courfeyrac stares at her. “Are you … talking about the Met Gala?”

“After party,” Eponine shrugs. “Alcoholic beverages may have been involved. Oscar Isaac mixes the bombest drinks. We had the conversation after a lot of his monstrosities. I lost him somewhere between cheering for Gwendoline Christie when she was arm wrestling Terry Crews and dancing with Emma Watson.” She glances at Enjolras and offers, “That could also be the reason why he ended up at your street? Terry was talking about how your area had that gastropub with the craziest crème brûlée and I said Babet and I went there once. Complete disaster. Don’t ask. Brûlée? Bah-bay?” She wrinkles her nose. “Man, they might have gotten spectacularly mixed in his head.” She lets out a snort at the thought.

Courfeyrac looks like he’s having a heart attack. “The Met Gala — arm wrestling contest between _Gwendoline Christie_ and _Terry Crews_ — ”

“Please don’t stop breathing,” Combeferre says immediately, moving closer to him. “I am planning to spend the rest of my life with you and that’s not going to pan out well if you suffocate — ”

“Man, you think that’s cool? You gotta see her go up against Terry fucking Crews and win — ”

The three of them get lost in their own little world, Courfeyrac and Eponine now seriously discussing how the sheer otherworldly power of Terry Crew’s pecs can go up against Gwendoline Christie’s inherent godliness while Combeferre alternates between making sure Courfeyrac’s using his respiratory system and loudly interjecting that, no, guys, going to the hotel Eponine’s staying at and accosting the two said stars for a demonstration is the worst idea in the history of ever.

Enjolras is pretty sure it’s a very interesting conversation — any other time, really, he would be all ears — but now the whole thing quickly falls to the wayside when he sees someone else finally emerge out of the bathroom. The newcomer was shuffling, sheepish and exuding apology, none of the righteous indignation that fuelled his inebriated life choices the night before. He avoids looking at them, eyes flitting all over the room. He cringes slightly at the ukulele when he sees it, and he cringes even more when his eyes land on Enjolras’ direction — somewhere in the area of Enjolras’ chin —- before they skitter away. He raises a hand to awkwardly scratch his nose, freezes, before quickly lowering it down. There’s a faint blush starting on his cheeks.

He’s replaced his tux with a white shirt, thin and slightly damp from the water still dripping for his hair.

A hint of a tattoo can be seen through the cotton, black lines curling and twisting across his chest, and when he bows his head and raises his arm to self-consciously pat his wild curls into some sort of order, his shirt rides up to reveal a tantalising view of new skin.

There’s another set of ink there, disappearing underneath soft-looking gray sweatpants.

Enjolras may have made a sound. Or a deep intake of breath. He’s not sure.

If Enjolras had been paying more attention to his surroundings, he would have heard a squeak that was violently cut short.

Also, If he _had_ been paying attention to his surroundings, he would have surely noticed that right after that the room went completely silent.

But Enjolras definitely didn’t, because then Grantaire —- Grantaire whose songs played in three weddings Enjolras went to, Grantaire whose written lyrics once made Musichetta and his own grandmother breakdown in tears, Grantaire whose fucking voice was banned from Enjolras’ study playlist because it always _always_ distracts him — finally looks up. His eyes catch Enjolras’ gaze first, and he holds it. His mouth curls into a rueful smile.

“Hi.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, man. The idea popped outta nowhere.


End file.
